I got out of my car. The place looked deserted but as I approached the nearer house, a tall, bony dog appeared around the corner. It growled. I stopped. The animal didn’t look in the least friendly. It bared its teeth, snarled and started toward me.
Everything I had ever read about unfriendly dogs said I should not run. A dog has four legs; I have only two. And, I shouldn’t stare at the animal; that would make him nervous. So, I held my empty right hand out to him, hoping he wouldn’t notice it was shaking, and spoke softly, keeping him in my peripheral vision as I gazed at the house.
“Hi there, fellow. Is your owner home?”
His answer was a growl rumbling from his throat. The nerves at the base of my skull bunched together. Evidently being kind was not working. The only weapon I had was my purse. Slowly, I eased out my cell phone. If worse came to worse, I would hit the button which dialed 9-1-1.
Just as the dog prepared to lunge and I prepared to scream, the door of the house opened. A tall woman, slim to the point of emaciation appeared. Her tired eyes swept me from head to feet and she spoke to the dog, “Down, Ulysses!”
Ulysses sank to the ground, the growl dying to a threatening rumble.
“Thanks,” I called, drawing a shaky breath. “He’s not very friendly, is he?”
“Don’t take to strangers. Who are you, and what do you want?”
Mrs. Decker (or so I assumed) wasn’t a bit friendlier than her husband and brother-in-law. Who were these people with names like Moe and Vermouth and a dog named Ulysses?
My face felt stiff when I tried to smile. “I’m Nettie McNeil, Ma’am. I wonder if I could come in and talk for a bit?”
Rough hands pushed the woman aside and a man stood in the doorway.
“You’re old Javin’s niece, ain’t you? The one I saw at the funeral. I don’t have nothin’ to say to you. You shouldn’t a come out here.” His voice chilled me more than the wind ruffling Ulysses’ fur.
“Um, Mr. Vermouth, is it? I’ve just moved back to Ednalee and I’m trying to talk to people who used to know my Uncle Javin, people who might know some reason that he was shot.”
“Yep, I’m Vermouth Decker and I’m here to tell you that we Deckers don’t hold with none of the Granger kin. Now git on out of here and go back home. Git!”
Never, in all my life, had anyone spoken to me with such venom. Pure hatred blazed from Vermouth Decker’s eyes and the dog’s hackles rose.
Slowly, I backed up, one step at a time. Ulysses kept pace with me, white fangs bared. Why didn’t Vermouth call off his dog? I had visions of lying at the Decker doorway, chewed full of holes and lifeless.
Excerpt from Moonlight Can Be Murder, the first cozy in the Ned McNeil moonlight series.
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